


Worth A Thousand Words

by argyle4eva



Series: Beyond Words [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes two people will never see the same thing, even when it's right in front of them.  But maybe that's okay.  Direct sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/111032">"Action Man."</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth A Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes: I still didn't manage to get to the “. . . with his penis” part of the original prompt, but this is the followup scene to “Action Man” that's been bugging my subconscious for a while now. Even if it didn't go explicit, that story needed this bit of closure. A slight repeat (with a twist) of the mirror-kink I explored in "The Art of Observation"; so sue me. Also, I'm hopelessly in love with the idea that Lestrade is a secret John/Sherlock shipper, so I couldn't resist giving a nod to that trope. Enjoy!

Getting out of the cab and paying for their ride was a strange, almost hallucinatory experience for John, given how incredibly hyper-aware he was of Sherlock. But somehow it was accomplished and then he and Sherlock were up the familiar stairs to their flat in a blur. John kicked the door shut behind them and was promptly slammed back against it by the force of Sherlock's body hitting his. Everything whited out in the intensity of lips on lips and bodies pressed together. An inarticulate sound escaped John's throat: partly encouragement, partly raw lust, and partly the physical result of air being forced out of his lungs by Sherlock's weight against him.

Sherlock broke the kiss with a gasp, pulling back to look at John, and then he paused, breathing hard, suddenly uncertain.

John, breathing just as hard, looked up into worried, pale eyes, and felt the new awkwardness between them like a physical thing, the expectation of words where there'd been none before. It scared him, so he did what he usually did when he was frightened: moved forward.

They had a language between them now, mostly silent, touches and breaths and gestures peppered with the occasional practical one- or two-word phrases: “Yes,” “like that,” “too much,” “more,” “like this,” “here,” “now,” “wait . . .” John pressed one hand to Sherlock's narrow ribs, underneath his coat. “Upstairs,” he murmured. A single word, a hint of guiding direction.

Sherlock turned to obey with such speed that John knew he wasn't the only one afraid, which both terrified him further and firmed his resolve.

Sherlock _was_ going to know how beautiful he was. Anything else would be . . . wrong. Unfair.

When Sherlock, halfway though shucking off his expensive, elegant coat, reached to flick off the overhead light John had turned on, John stopped him with a gentle hand under Sherlock's wrist – a familiar movement fraught with new meaning. A brief exchange of glances, a headshake from John, and they continued, but not as usual. Clothing was coming off, but with sidelong glances and pauses.

Half in laughter and half in pain, John reached out to touch Sherlock's elbow when they were both shirtless and the removal of trousers seemed to become a sticking point where it hadn't been before.

“Sherlock,” John began, as gently as possible, receiving a wary glance from pale blue eyes. “I . . .” And there the words ran out. Sherlock's eyes, so laser-focused normally, so unflinching, so confident, were heartbreaking when they were scared and vulnerable.

John shook his head in frustration. “I'm not Shakespeare,” he said. “I can't do the whole, 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day' thing. I . . . just . . .” His embarrassed, wandering gaze lit on the closed closed door, and inspiration struck. _A picture is worth a thousand words._ “Here,” he said, reaching with one hand to open the closet, and reveal the full length mirror on the inside of the door, and with the other to catch Sherlock's elbow.

Sherlock followed his urging, but reluctantly. He let John position him in front of the mirror, eyes downcast, and when John's confident hands on his hips signaled _stop_ , Sherlock's eyes flickered up and he flinched, as if what he saw truly pained him, turning his eyes away from his own reflection.

John let out a deep, unhappy sigh, looking into the mirror at Sherlock's graceful torso, the unexpected bands of muscle covered in fine, soft skin, the handsome profile, the dark hair falling in effortless waves. He reached out to wrap a steadying arm around Sherlock's waist. Despite the lack of direct sunlight in London and John's tendency to go properly covered, cuffs and collars completely buttoned, the contrast between his skin and Sherlock's was still striking: gold over cream. John couldn't help shaking his head on wonder at the picture their reflection made – Sherlock's ethereal grace and beauty, paired with his own, ordinary solidity.

“You really don't know, do you?” John asked, sadly, giving Sherlock's taut stomach and lean side a gentle rub. “How beautiful you are?”

Sherlock flinched as if struck, and John kissed the point of his shoulder, gently. At that, Sherlock risked a sidelong glance at himself, through the cover of an unruly curtain of hair. “No,” he said, simply.

John shook his head. “Don't you see it in other people's reactions to you? You have to be pulling all the time, without really trying. Doesn't that register?”

A shrug from Sherlock. “Modern society is all about sex,” he said, tone dismissive. “People are obsessed. It's meaningless noise.”

“That's what you think, is it?”John asked and couldn't help laughing. “Wish I could have got a bit of that 'noise' back when I was out for a night on the town.” Sherlock stayed tense and didn't seem to get the joke, which killed John's laughter outright.

John sighed again and pressed his cheek to Sherlock's upper arm. “You are,” he said, meeting his own sad, longing eyes in reflection. “I can't . . . I don't have words for it. Your brain is amazing, don't get me wrong, but your body is . . . so . . .”

Sherlock exhaled a shaky laugh, hurt turned into an attempt at humor. “Even the moles?” he asked.

“Oh, God, especially the moles,” John breathed, closing his eyes and nuzzling the soft skin of Sherlock's arm. “They're the only thing that convinces me you're human and real. I love your moles.”

“They're grotesque,” Sherlock said, with feeling. “Random. Disorganized.”

“They're amazing,” John countered with equal feeling. Inspiration sparked, and he added, “Do you know which one's my favorite?”

Sherlock huffed, and reached up to move John's hand from his waist to the fabric of the trousers he still wore, just inside the crest of his hipbone, where John knew very well there was a prominent brown spot, the closest of the lot to Sherlock's crotch. “Probably this one,” Sherlock responded, wryly. Painfully.

“No,” John told him, gently pulling Sherlock's hand free and repositioning it to rest his fingertips over the beauty mark at the base of his throat. “This one.”

Sherlock' s surprised expression was all the prompting John needed. “Whenever I see that mole I think about all the rest of them, all over you, and what you look like, naked, in my bed,” he said softly. “And that's brilliant.”

Sherlock's eyes met John's in reflection, searching for any prevarication, any exaggeration, and found only truth. But he still didn't believe – that much was clear from _his_ face.

John kissed Sherlock's shoulder again. “I wish you could see what I see when I look at you,” he said sadly, arm sliding back down to Sherlock's waist to give a gentle, loving squeeze.

“I rather wish I could, too,” Sherlock said, almost as sadly. But then, warmer and with affection, he added, “But I prefer looking at you, so it all works out in the end.”

“Me?” John asked, startled into looking at his own, completely ordinary reflection. “Really? Why?” He didn't consider himself bad-looking, as things went, but he was nothing as stunning as Sherlock.

Sherlock huffed out a deep breath, gazing into the mirror and their intertwined image. “I think I'm beginning to understand your point of view,” he said after a moment, with a wry half-smile. “But I prefer mine.” He turned his head to nuzzle at John's hair; John raised his head to change the contact into a kiss, and Sherlock let his hand slip down to John's hip. A gentle tug said, in their old, silent language, _Come to bed._

John didn't need to be asked twice.

–

“Freak” was the word of the day at a grim, grey, rain-drenched crime scene some time later. Sherlock pretended to ignore it all, went right on being brilliant and difficult and beautiful, but John saw every dart, every unkind word, strike home.

There was a moment, in between the analysis and discussion, when John's eyes met Sherlock's, and John paused, deliberately held the intangible contact, and, certain he had Sherlock's attention, glanced at the single mole revealed by Sherlock's open shirt collar. Then he looked back up and let everything he felt show, for the barest second.

Anyone else might have missed it, but not Sherlock. John was rewarded with the faintest flush across pale cheeks, the slightest twitch of a smile . . . and then Sherlock rounded on Scotland Yard's finest with renewed force, sharp, keen and uncompromising.

Most of them recoiled, then backed off, not understanding what had just happened, but if Lestrade happened to send an approving wink in John's direction and John pretended not to notice, well, not everything needed to be said out loud.

It was all fine, after all.


End file.
